


Three Ainur on a Mountain (To Say Nothing of the Dragon)

by Naamah_Beherit, Vampiric_Charms



Series: Feeding the sheep is prohibited [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comedy, Established Relationship, Humour, M/M, Sheep AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 19:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7451032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naamah_Beherit/pseuds/Naamah_Beherit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampiric_Charms/pseuds/Vampiric_Charms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life of a royal official can be difficult. Especially when you are sent to a village which inhabitants claim to be terrorised by unexpected snowfalls, a redhead stealing mistreated dogs, and a man with a dragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Ainur on a Mountain (To Say Nothing of the Dragon)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [As the Mirror Cracks from Side to Side](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7401961) by [Vampiric_Charms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampiric_Charms/pseuds/Vampiric_Charms). 



> This is a companion piece to Vampiric_Charms' "As the Mirror Cracks from Side to Side" set in the same AU. To sum things up: we are operating under the assumption Melkor returned to Angband after his release and left again shortly thereafter, with Mairon at his side, to find some little (actually rather large, let’s be real) piece of land on a mountain to exclusively call their own. Some friends came with them. Treaties were signed, tentative peace was called, and here we are.
> 
>  
> 
> This particular story happens at the end of the Second Age, a few centuries before the plague described in "As the Mirror...".  
> Features a great deal of utter nonsense, two dorks with their pets, a flustered bird, prayers that are answered, a few guest appearances that weren’t planned at the beginning but happened nonetheless, one shameless quote straight from "High Hopes" by Pink Floyd, and an imaginary cookie for everyone who finds that quote.
> 
> Enjoy!

(...)

“The dark lord appears  
Welcome to my lands  
You shall be damned”

Blind Guardian _Time Stands Still (At the Iron Hill)_

 

He was the Lord of This Land.

That was the title which to him became more important than his own name. When he said it aloud, there was absolutely no question that it was spoken in capital letters. Titles like that always were. A great deal of work and even more plotting were what granted him that title and the position that came with it, and he was not going to give up on them any time soon.

Besides, no one ever took him seriously when he said his name was Rufin, and everyone in the neighbourhood knew that it was his mother which had once had a disturbing affair with a hobbit. So Rufin had moved as far away from his home village as he could, worked hard and in the end became the Lord of the Land that was now his home.

He answered to someone who answered to someone who answered to the King, which made him quite a persona in the local power structure that until now had consisted only of a butcher, a baker, and an innkeeper. All of the remaining villagers seemed to simply exist in the background, doing whatever it was the villagers did in their free time. It did not matter that he never even saw the King he served; to them, _he_ was the King.

So when the ground trembled during the second night he spent in his new house, he joyfully ignored it and kept thinking on possible ways to improve the overall condition of his village and, of course, of himself. He thought of everything that was so dreadfully neglected here, of the villagers with hollow eyes and resigned faces, of hushed whispers that followed his every step.

He was going to make it better. To make _everything_ better. This was his land now, after all.

For a moment, he thought he heard distant screams that somehow penetrated a pleasant haze of his self-induced praise and wishful thinking. He ignored them as well, already looking forward to the following morning and the meeting he set up with the villagers. Screams disturbing him at nights were definitely going to be addressed during that meeting.

He was the Lord of This Land and as such, he was supposed to sleep in peace.

 

* * *

 

 “You ate a half of our herd!” Melkor yelled and his words echoed all the way to the valley and the village that perched at the foot of their mountain. “What were you thinking? There are _dozens_ of settlements around, with hundreds of sheep and cows and… and…”

“Other cattle,” Mairon suggested cheerfully as he watched Ancalagon the Black trying to perform his best impression of a scolded dog. After all, there was no shortage of dogs around from which he could have learnt how to do that. And it might have even worked had the dragon only been a hundred times smaller.

“Yes, _that_ ; thank you, Mairon,” the Vala nodded in his general direction, seemingly having lost the track of his tirade for a moment. Then he looked at Ancalagon again, the now slightly smaller group of sheep gathered around the dragon as if it were a completely normal behaviour for them, and picked up the rant. “The point is, you will devour all of our sheep before this age ends and I will _not_ accept that!”

Melkor paused for a second to exhale and, much to everyone’s surprise, did not continue. He suddenly realised that he had spent most of the last century ranting, and it disgusted him. There he was, the mightiest of the Valar, berating his greatest dragon about the sheep. Why was he even keeping the sheep in the first place?

Ah, right. They had kept cows as well at first, but they were all eaten by Mairon’s wolves. There had been no dogs at the beginning; those began to appear much later and their number grew exponentially.

“I am going to crush a mountain or something,” Melkor announced gloomily to no one in particular and turned on his heel to leave. It was a hastily made decision and just like the vast majority of decisions throughout his entire existence, it made absolutely no sense.

Facing such a definitive statement - and the apparent lack of consideration on Melkor’s part; he assumed it was a Valarin equivalent of midlife crisis - Mairon let out an exasperated sigh and hurried inside before the start of the inevitable snowfall that always came in pairs with Melkor’s sour mood. Apparently forgotten in favour of a personal drama - although it was quite astonishing to forget a dragon of the size of a mountain - Ancalagon decided that another missing sheep would surely go unnoticed.

 

* * *

 

Rufin woke up to see the village covered with the rapidly melting snow. The villagers, on the other hand, looked like they did not even notice that, as if the snow in the middle of the summer were an absolutely typical occurrence. Maybe it was, though. Rufin had never lived in the mountains before.

When they finally gathered for the meeting, he was that singular ray of sunshine casting its bright light of optimism on the depressed villagers. They tried their best to hide from it. So he talked and talked and then talked some more, and the snow melted as he did. And everything went well up to the very moment when he asked, “And which one of you lives in a cottage on that mountain?”

He did not know that it was possible for humans to shrink. Somehow, they did just that. Rufin frowned, looked at the book left for him by his predecessor and hesitated for a moment. There were _lots_ of handwritten notes concerning that cottage. ‘Don’t go there,’ was repeated at least a dozen times. ‘Just don’t,’ warned another one. ‘Don’t be a fool and listen to us,’ ordered yet another, scribbled in a completely different handwriting.

There was also the one which was composed only of a capital letter ‘A’. It spanned five paragraphs.

Then Rufin remembered that he was the Lord of This Land, let that knowledge empower him and slammed the book shut.

“Well?” he asked in a happy tone. “Which one of you lives there?”

His villagers seemed to be more interested in the floor than in him. Rufin sighed heavily as though he carried the weight of Arda on his shoulders. “My good men—”

“Please, sire,” someone cut him in. “We don’t speak ‘bout ‘em. Better to leave it be.”

“I can see that this is a troubling matter,” he thoughtfully began, his smile benevolent and wide as if that of the King himself. “And this is why I am here. I will help any way I can if you only let me.”

Silence that fell was deafening. And then everyone started shouting.

“Evil dwells on that mountain!”

“The Valar have forsaken us, they let ‘em live ‘ere and torment us whenever they feel like it!”

“He makes the snow fall! In the summer! It ruins the crops!”

“And the ginger one stole my dogs!”

“...a dragon,” someone whimpered, and that meek sound was what silenced everyone. Rufin tried to wrap his head around all that and failed miserably.

“Are you saying,” he said slowly, “that there is a man who lives up there and causes... snowfalls? And that he steals dogs and has a—a dragon?”

“No, the ginger one steals the dogs,” the butcher told him as if it were completely typical for all redheads in Arda to claim ownership of other people’s dogs. “But there’s two of them up there on Mount Doom. And a woman. And a dragon. And a whole lot of dogs.”

“And wolves,” one of the shepherds added. “Or worse. Have you seen those beasts? They’re the size of a man and their eyes _glow_.”

Their chatter flowed around him, uncontrolled and wilder with each passing minute. Rufin was slowly coming to a conclusion that the villagers were mad, and he wondered if it were something contagious. He hoped it was not; he would rather not face the King as a raving madman. Then his eyes were involuntarily drawn towards the book with village records, and something akin to fear settled itself within him.

Mount Doom, he thought with bitter amusement that was supposed to overcome fear. Who let them name the mountain in the first place?

“When was the last time taxes were collected from those miscreants on the mountain?” he asked his assistant when he realised that the townsmen engaged in their heated debate which was slowly reaching a level of ridiculousness he was unable to tolerate. The assistant - a young boy that followed him all the way from Osgiliath - hastily opened the book Rufin had earlier decided to disregard utterly.

“Uhm,” the boy mumbled, apparently dissatisfied with what he found, “never, m’lord.”

“Never?” Rufin repeated, the concept of it somehow refused to be acknowledged by his brain.

“Never.”

He straightened his back and wrapped the confidence born of knowledge that he was the Lord of This Land around himself like a cloak. Besides, the King would dismiss him if he did not provide enough money to co-fund a recently planned monument. Everyone knew that kings everywhere loved their monuments more than they loved their officials.

“Gather the books, Bill,” Rufin said to the boy with all the conviction in Arda. “We’re going to remind those rascals what it means to be the subjects of our King.”

 

* * *

 

All the way up to the mountain top, he cursed himself for making such a stupid decision. He cursed the Valar for creating the mountains in the first place. He cursed the King for leaving borderlands of his kingdom unattended. He cursed the Valar for letting those two troublemakers live in such a problematic location. Then he started cursing himself again.

Something changed at some point during their climb, and Rufin was unable to say what it was exactly, but somehow the grass was greener, the light was brighter, and the air began to smell of wet dogs and smoke. He heard sheep bleating somewhere on the other side of plateau, and his mind immediately began summing up the amount of money he was going to demand from those three… individuals living here, whoever they might be.

When they stopped near a stone cottage which could easily house his entire village, there was no one to greet them. A faint trail of smoke could be seen above the cottage, and a pack of dogs was happily and quite pointlessly running around, followed closely by a peculiar looking, winged… _something_. Rufin refused to acknowledge its existence and fixed his eyes on a few empty barrels which bore the mark of King Oropher’s vineyards. He doubled the tax to be paid, fully aware of how expensive that wine was. If they could afford it, they would surely part with a few hundred castar more than he originally wanted to demand from them.

Bill stopped behind him, wheezing and desperately looking around for water. Rufin forced himself to regard the boy with amusement he did not feel. He could not allow himself to show weakness. Villagers everywhere would always smell blood, at least that was what he had been taught before accepting this position.

“Go and look for them, boy,” he ordered Bill with a gracious gesture. “Meanwhile, I’ll wait here and see if any of them shows up.”

“But, m’lord…” the boy stuttered, his eyes suddenly wide and voice quivering.

“What are you waiting for?”

“M’lord, _look_ ,” Bill pointed something, his hands clenched around the book as if his life depended on it. Rufin frowned, looked in that direction, and froze.

A woman stood not so far from him, pale and beautiful and somehow _timeless_ , her black hair matching the colour of her loose cloak - which slightly ruined the entire picture for it was covered in dog hair.

“My lady,” Rufin quickly recovered and bowed with respect. She did not curtsey in return. “The King has recently appointed me as the overseer of this part of his lands. I have come to greet you as you did not come to the meeting today.”

Silence. The dogs gathered around her.

“Would you be so kind,” Rufin tried again, annoyance creeping slowly into his words, “to tell the lord of this house of my presence here? There are matters that need discussing.”

She cocked her head to the side and smiled slightly with her lips pressed tightly together. “I do not presume to know where our lord is,” she said in a voice sweet as night. Then she patted one of the dogs. “Tell master Mairon that we have a visitor. He will be _thrilled_ to know that.”

Rufin filed that name for later. One never knew what might prove useful after all.

He waited. The woman kept looking at him as if he were her dinner, which was somewhat uncomfortable. The ground trembled from time to time, and it made his stomach tighten with inexplicable fear. Avalanches happen all the time, he told himself.

“Have you forgotten what it means to be a messenger?” could suddenly be heard from somewhere behind the cottage. The woman smirked and the dogs joyfully ran in that direction. “You do _not_ send my dogs to give me messages, you do it yourse—Thuringwethil, what is _that_?!”

That must be Mairon she spoke of, Rufin realised as he turned around to observe the approaching man. He was unsure what he expected of him, but the reddest hair in entire Arda somehow did not make the list.

“That would be a Secondborn, Mairon,” the woman—Thuringwethil, he recalled; what kind of a name was that, anyway?—chuckled menacingly in the most menacing of chuckles. If anyone ever wanted to learn how to chuckle menacingly, she would the best possible teacher. “Have your senses dulled so much that you cannot recognise one anymore?”

“Have you decided to trade _your_ sense of self-preservation for second-rate ripostes?” the redhead retorted effortlessly and with what seemed to be a great deal of satisfaction. “Coming to think of it, I do not think I require a messenger anymore, so do enlighten me why we should still keep you when all you do is either bothering my dogs or trying to insult me? And failing, I might add.”

“Am I?” Thuringwethil asked as though Rufin were not even there, her lips curved in a small, innocent smile that could easily be imagined on a face of a hobbit claiming that it was not them who ate that cake; not them at all, thank you very much. “Failing, I mean.”

“You would surely notice if you succeeded.”

Rufin coughed loud enough to be heard in a few metres radius. The redhead regarded him with that particular kind of look which was reserved for unique forms of life. His eyes resembled molten gold.

“I have come here,” the Lord of This Land said with as much superiority as he could muster, “to talk to the owner of this homestead. Is that you, my good man?”

Mairon raised his perfect eyebrows. “Our lord is currently far afield,” he said, “although you can speak to me about anything you wanted to tell him.”

Oh, that was _not_ going to happen, Rufin thought as he held his chin high and tried to look into Mairon’s eyes. It was quite difficult, given how much taller the redhead was, but he tried his best. He always tried his best, no matter the circumstances. He was stubborn like that.

“This is a matter of neglected responsibilities and a debt to the crown,” he said, “and as such, I will not convey it to anyone but the head of this house. Tell your master that he is to leave this mountain and meet me in the village to discuss the tax he owes the King.”

Mairon was looking at him, seemingly at loss for words, his golden eyes blinking rapidly and his mouth hanging agape. The dogs that had previously run to greet him, now assembled around him as if they could protect him from every danger in Arda, including unfortunate tax-collectors. Thuringwethil, on the other hand, was casting her glance to and fro him and Rufin, her giggles getting more and more audible with each passing second.

“This,” the redhead seriously began, “is the most insolent thing anyone has ever spoken to me, and I have heard _a lot_.”

Before he had a chance to retort, a low growl suddenly broke the silence; Rufin looked in that direction and froze, his stomach clenched in a tight fist of terror. The largest dog he had ever seen was slowly approaching them—or perhaps it was not a dog at all but something different entirely, with its red eyes and unnatural size that could only be destined to instill dread in people’s hearts. He took a step back and braced himself for an attack.

But no attack came for the beast lazily approached Mairon’s side, lay down and rolled over, obviously and shamelessly pleading for a belly rub as if envious of the attention that was currently focused on the other dogs.

“Some guard you are,” he said to the dog-like monster—or was it an overgrown wolf, maybe? Rufin had no idea what to think of the scene unfolding in front of him, “letting a Man—a Man!—trespass on our land. I am ashamed of you, Draugluin.”

The wolf whimpered and put a paw across its eyes in a move that was universal for all scolded dogs, no matter how large or unique they were. Then Rufin heard footsteps behind him and when he turned around, Bill could be seen running down towards the valley far too fast than it was reasonable to do on such a steep slope. He did not blame the boy, for he was inclined to do the same. Why did he not heed the warnings everyone had given him?

“What is that thing you said we owed to some mortal king?” Mairon asked with genuine interest, bringing Rufin’s attention back to him. That choice of words finally made him understand - they were Elves, hence the eccentricity. Everyone knew that the Elves did not care for mundane things such as the food and the taxes and the unfortunate officials who had to gather those.

A deeply buried, primal part of his mind told Rufin that neither the redhead nor the woman resembled any Elf he ever saw, but he disregarded it. After all, they usually kept to themselves and rarely got involved in the affairs of Men.

“As far as our records go back, you have not paid what you are due,” he explained.

“And why would we pay you anything?”

“Because you are obliged to for being allowed to live on a land belonging to our King.”

Mairon looked at Thuringwethil, and she looked at him just as puzzled.

“Do correct me if I am mistaken,” the redhead finally said, absent-mindedly scratching one of the dogs behind its ears, “but it sounds that everyone pays their tribute to the most powerful figure around simply because the aforementioned figure _is_ the most powerful around. Am I correct?”

“Well,” Rufin said, even though his mother had taught him that sentences should never begin with ‘well’, “if you put it this way, then… yes, I believe that such an assumption reflects the concept quite well.”

“In this case we will graciously accept your offer,” Mairon said and brushed something invisible off the collar of his tunic. “Bring your tribute tomorrow at midday and leave it at the edge of the yard.”

Rufin blinked, certain beyond doubt that he misheard what was just spoken. He did not have time to retort, though, because where one calamity befell, another one was bound to follow - and it just did. Something he believed to be a mountain suddenly _moved,_ the sheep began to bleat, someone bellowed, “Mairon!”, and entire Arda seemed to hold its breath. If it breathed at all in the first place, of course.

“Mairon, my dear,” said the man that approached them, “have we lost a dragon recently?”

 _Valar, help me_ , was the last thought Rufin’s brain supplied him with before it decided to take a long-deserved break.

 

* * *

 

Only Melkor could ask a question like that and smile as he did it. Mairon sighed and hid his face in his hands, pretending not to hear Thuringwethil’s giggles or Draugluin’s concerned whimpers. Maybe if he did not look at the problem, it would eventually disappear. It worked for the Valar, after all.

Alas, the problem put his hand on the Maia’s shoulder. “Mairon,” he asked in a concerned tone, “are you well?”

“Yes,” Mairon muttered and it was barely audible from behind his hands, “I am.”

“You do not seem to be,” Melkor said thoughtfully, “so perhaps this will help?”

The Maia sighed, lowered his hands, and looked at a bundle made of cloak that was being handed over to him. It moved and whimpered almost inaudibly, so he placed the cloak on the ground and unveiled it - only to see three puppies, so young that their eyes were still closed.

“Where did you—?” he asked in astonishment and stood up, allowing the dogs to sniff at the pups.

“I have stumbled across a peasant who was going to drown them,” Melkor explained conversationally. “Knowing well how much you love your dogs, I thought I would bring them here. Having ensured that the peasant will never drown anything ever again, naturally. After all, three more make no difference, to be honest, their hair is already everywhere. Did you know that I recently found it in my food?”

“Yes, you keep telling me that for quite some time now,” Mairon retorted, but it was half-hearted. The Vala knew him too well. “Thank you for bringing them here, my significant annoyance.”

“You are—what did you just call me? And what is that Secondborn doing on my lawn?”

The Secondborn in question was currently staring at the ground with a blank expression on his face.

“Did you break it?” Melkor asked with curiosity and took a few steps towards the Man. He did not even flinch.

“I did not even touch him,” Mairon huffed in indignation. “Truth be told, I think he saw Ancalagon.”

“Ah, he _does_ have that effect on weaker minds,” the Vala said with obvious delight. He waved his hand right before the intruder’s eyes, but it yielded no result - except, perhaps, making him lose interest in that Man. “So what about that dragon? Has any of them… well, disappeared recently?”

The Maia realised that only Melkor could lose a dragon and be so indifferent about it. Or, more accurately, only Melkor could lose a dragon, period.

“I cannot say for sure, I am not your dragon-keeper” he replied, kneeling on the ground to have a better look at the three puppies. They were gorgeous and he was already in love with them. “But now that I think about it, I recall I have not seen one of the smaller ones recently. And what happened to make you ask about it?”

The Vala gave him his iconic smile that always meant ‘I am not responsible for this, it happened on its own accord’. And, just as always, Mairon did not believe it. Things never happened on their own - at least not when the mightiest of Valar was concerned. He also knew that even if he did not pry into that matter, he would eventually be told everything whether he wanted to know it or not.

And, as always, he did not have to wait long.

“A whelp took over a dwarven mountain, and I was simply wondering which one could that be. I fear I have somewhat neglected them recently.”

“And by ‘recently’ you mean the entire previous age, do you not?”

“My, someone has an attitude today,” Melkor said in a voice he usually used when he ran out of repartees. The Maia smirked at that little victory - as they no longer waged wars, he focused his attention on winning arguments - and gathered the cloak with the puppies into his arms.

“I am going to take care of these three first,” he announced, “and then we can sort out your dragon problem.”

A small smile appeared on Melkor’s lips, but it was not granted time to form fully. A gust of a strong wind suddenly broke the usual soft breeze, a faint smell of magic filled the air, and a heavy silence fell over the plateau. Even the sheep made no sound as they were aware that entrances such as this had to be dramatic.

Eönwë stood beside the Man, clad in an overwhelming sense of self-righteousness and all the rage of Valian fashion. His perfect appearance was somewhat disrupted by feathers sticking out of his hair at various angles - it was unknown if he were not given enough time to prepare for his journey, or if perhaps it were simply a rebellious phase he was currently going through. As far as Mairon knew, there was not even a shard of rebelliousness in that Maia.

He rolled his eyes, Melkor sighed, Draugluin began to growl, and Thuringwethil said, “Oh, my.”

“Behold, o beloved Child of Ilúvatar,” the Herald of Manwë said to the Man that still seemed to be unresponsive, “thy prayers have been heard. Speak now of tribulations that caused ye to call upon the Valar, and thou shalt be given aid you require.”

“Since when does my brother listen to prayers?” Melkor inquired in a light-hearted voice. “He used to run the other way rather than deal with the Secondborns.”

“I will lay a wager it is because the prayers have been spoken in our vicinity,” Mairon observed, pressing the puppies closer to his chest.

“A valid observation, my dear, as always. But you did not answer my earlier question: what is that Man doing here?”

Seemingly without any interest in the conversation, Eönwë touched the Man’s arm. In return, the Man began to drool.

“Apparently people these days pay their money to whoever is the most notable around,” the Maia explained as Thuringwethil moved out of the corner of his eye. “So I informed him that we will accept their tribute if they so wish to bestow it upon us.”

“Why would we even need their money?” the Vala asked in confusion, his eyes never leaving Eönwë who was currently getting more and more frustrated with the Man that did not react to him in a way he wanted him to. “We only ever buy the wine, and we do not even use the gold to pay for it. That elfling and his offspring already possess a larger number of rings of your making than they have fingers to wear them.”

Eönwë turned from the Man to look at them, confused and quite possibly angry as well. “What have you done to him?” he demanded to know even though he was in no position to demand anything. Mairon wondered briefly if the Valar grew so bored that they would send him to Middle-earth only to pick up a fight.

Before he had a chance to answer, Melkor put a hand on his shoulder in a wordless suggestion to let him be the one to participate in this argument. “Is that any way to address a Vala?” he asked in a voice that reminded Mairon about days that had long but passed.

Judging by the look on Eönwë’s face, he must have recalled those days as well. He somehow forced himself to bow and uttered, “Hail to thee, Lord Melkor, You Who Arise in Might.”

Mairon suspected that after his return to Valinor, the Herald of Manwë would most likely try to wash those words off his tongue with a stone.

“Yes, go on,” Melkor casually prompted, his hand still resting on Mairon’s shoulder and radiating familiar waves of comfort.

“HailtotheetheMightiestofValar,” Eönwë sputtered in one breath and looked around in horror, as if he expected that Manwë would appear out of nowhere to punish him for calling someone else the mightiest of Valar.

Mairon snickered and focused his attention on Thuringwethil who crept ever closer to the Herald, an unusual expression on her face and a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Whatever she was planning, it was going to be worthy of observation.

“It was not that hard, was it?” Melkor asked with satisfaction. “Now, answering your question, little Maia… That unfortunate creature suffered no harm at our hands. As you know, we keep our end of the agreement I have made with my brother all those ages ago. However, it seems that he does not do the same, for you are here and it was explicitly acquiesced that we are to be left alone and unbothered.”

Eönwë gulped and opened his mouth to respond, but the Man chose that moment to finally come to his senses. That fact manifested itself as a scream that was fit for someone being burnt alive.

“The sheep are scared!” Ancalagon boomed from the other side of the meadow, abandoning any pretence that he was just another mountain.

“The dogs are scared!” Mairon added in an angry voice as the entire pack gathered around him, begging for comfort of their master’s presence.

“ _I_ am scared,” Melkor winced. “It reminds me of Manwë’s singing.”

The Secondborn stopped screaming and looked around himself, his eyes widening at the sight of Eönwë. “You—”

The Herald of Manwë straightened his back as if that could help him with anything. “Speak, o Child of Ilúvatar,” he said, “for the Valar have heard your prayers.”

“They have?”

“Yes, uhm,” he nodded, cast a sideways glance at Thuringwethil and took one small step away from her, “now speak of perils that have befallen you.”

“Well,” the Man lost himself in thoughts for a moment, far too calm than he should be given the situation he was in, “at first I wanted to know which of the Valar created the  mountains, because I had to climb this one and it was _dreadful_ , but afterwards… Can you help me with something?”

“Of course,” Eönwë bowed his head, but somehow never took his eyes off Thuringwethil. Neither did Mairon. “This is why I was sent here.”

“In this case… Do you have any experience in dealing with unruly peasants?”

There was a moment of silence in which even Thuringwethil stopped moving.

“...I beg your pardon?” Eönwë finally broke it with a question everyone wanted to ask.

“They,” the Man pointed an accusing finger at Melkor and Mairon, “are tax arrears who disregard their duties entirely!”

The look on Eönwë’s face clearly expressed what he thought of a possibility of Melkor and Mairon abiding by the rules and duties.

“From what I have been told, my Maia already informed you that we will accept your tribute even though we have no need for the gold,” Melkor waved his hand in dismissal.

Ground shook beneath their feet as Ancalagon hastily made his way towards them, the sheep following him as inevitably as nights followed days. “Did someone say something about the gold?” he asked. “I will take the gold if you do not want it.”

All colour seemed to recede from the Secondborn’s face, but this time his mind kept on working. “No one will give you any gold!” he said in a voice that _almost_ did not shake. “It is _you_ who owe your tribute to the King!”

“And what King might that be?”

“Our beloved and most—”

“You know what, I do not care,” Melkor interjected, his restlessness taking better of him. “Whatever it is you sought here, it will not be granted. And you are lucky that I promised my brother I would no longer kill the Children.”

As Mairon expected, Eönwë did not react to that remark even though he should have. He was currently focused on moving farther away from Thuringwethil, who slowly but surely advanced on him with a patience and determination of a storm. Their movement was beginning to take a shape of a circle - she must have learnt from the dogs a trick or two about herding.

“Look at them,” he told Melkor, “they are adorable.”

“‘Adorable’ is not exactly a word I would use in regard to your messenger,” the Vala commented drily, “although I _do_ admit that watching Eönwë panic is pure delight.”

The Maia in question blushed furiously when Thuringwethil blew him a kiss.

“His face is the colour of your hair,” Melkor realised with incredulity. “How is that even possible?”

“I almost feel sorry for him,” Mairon admitted. “She can be… relentless, to say the least.”

“Do you think he will fall for her… well, I would not call it a charm, to be honest, but some kind of… of…”

“Irresistible personality?” the Maia suggested. “Well, she _does_ get what she wants most of the time. We can make bets if you want, it has been some time since we had a decent fun.”

“Are you saying that you are bored?” the Vala haughtily asked, crossed his arms and regarded Mairon with outrage and something unrecognisable, though strangely familiar. It made Mairon shiver despite the warm summer sun. “Very well, let us bet. I say she will have him wrapped around her finger before this day is over.”

“He is too stiff for that, so my guess is that he will run away before this gets out of hand. If I win, Draugluin can sleep inside the house.”

“And if _I_ win,” Melkor stepped even closer to him to trail his fingers down the Maia’s neck in a slow movement which promised that much more could follow if only given enough time, “I will provide you with all that fun you so boldly claimed to be short of recently.”

Mairon suddenly wished he did not hold those puppies. Then he noticed that the Man, all but forgotten by everyone, did not move from his spot at all, watching everything with wide-open eyes and a slightly panicked grimace on his face, his sanity quite probably leaving him bit by bit as time passed by. So he weighed pros and cons, decided that he was growing tired with the current impasse, and grabbed Eönwë’s wrist at the first possibility.

“Why don’t you do what you were sent here for, feather-brain? Your lord is probably getting tired of waiting for your report.”

The Herald of Manwë, whose face managed to regain some of its usual hue, reddened again at the sight of Melkor’s fingers caressing idly Mairon’s neck. “Yes,” he said in voice raspy with discomfort and embarrassment, “yes, you are right. Yes. I…”

He straightened, gathered remnants of his confidence, and approached the miserable Secondborn. “O Child,” he said wistfully, “what you demanded from them will not be paid, neither now nor ever to any king that might think of this land as his. You are fortunate enough to be spared and able to depart from this place, it would not have happened in the ages of yore.”

“But… but the taxes!” the Man objected. It caused Eönwë to rub his temples in annoyance.

“The Valar and their servants do not pay the taxes.”

“Oi!” Mairon angrily interrupted. “I am not his servant!”

“Yes, love, keep telling yourself that,” Melkor gleefully chimed in.

“I don’t want the Valar to pay the taxes, I want these two delinquents to do it!” the Secondborn all but yelled, almost like a child who were not given a new toy that was promised to them. Eönwë shot Melkor a panicked look.

“Mairon, my dear,” the Vala began with a predatory smile, “what do you think of starting a new war? Because if that miserable creature keeps being so dim-witted, I will kill it and we will have to say goodbye to our peace treaty.”

“People usually need to have a brain to be dim-witted,” the Maia observed casually. “This one seems to lack it altogether. And I _do_ love a prospect of a war, a change of pace in our lives would do nicely.”

Eönwë was apparently starting to realise that he might lose his position rather soon.

“I thought the Men were more intelligent than this… _specimen_ we see before us,” Melkor mused, taking a step closer towards the Man. Manwë’s Herald hastily shielded him with his own body. “Or maybe this is simply because this one seems to be a mongrel of some kind. Does it not remind you of a hobbit?”

“Do I even want to know what a ‘hobbit’ is?” Mairon rolled his eyes.

“It is a species of wildlife native to hills north of—nevermind, though,” the Vala decided to cut his explanation short as Mairon’s face clearly expressed his lack of interest in the hobbits. “The point is he reminds me of them a great deal. No pureblooded Secondborn could have feet so large as this one does.”

“I resent that accusation!” the Man yelled, pushed past Eönwë and approached Melkor, his hands on his hips and his head lifted up to look in a vague direction of the Vala’s eyes. “I am not related to _any_ hobbit in _any_ way, this is a wild gossip that has no truth in it! And you, my good man, _you_ would be wise to treat your King’s representative with respect!”

That statement was followed by a moment of silence in which Mairon tried to remember if there ever were a living being who might have called Melkor a ‘good man’.

“I am not qualified enough for this,” Eönwë whimpered miserably and sat on the grass. Thuringwethil - her undivided attention quite peculiar in its intensity - perched close to him but he pretended not to have noticed.

“Mairon, do _not_ let him leave,” Melkor finally said and stormed off towards the house. The Maia glanced at thick clouds that were quickly gathering right above the roof. If they were lucky, this entire situation would end with a mere hailstorm or a moderate snowfall. If not…

Well, if he were to think about this, a little bit of both physical and intellectual activity that was absolutely necessary to wage a war would do him good. He was getting softer with each passing century.

“I’m not finished yet,” the Man grumbled, but no one was paying him even the tiniest bit of attention.

A loud sound of something valuable being broken to pieces could suddenly be heard from the house, and Mairon dreaded the thought of what might have just been permanently lost. Hopefully it was not something of sentimental value, but if the worst came to pass, he was going to banish Melkor to a bitter realm of a couch for a century or two. Or ten.

Then the Vala walked out of the house and Mairon’s thoughts were gone as if they never crossed his mind.

Melkor was wearing his old armour and it was a _glorious_ sight, all sharp edges and majesty and even overlooked splodges of blood which origin could not longer be determined, the overall impression marred only by a solitary cobweb dangling from one of spikes of his iron helmet. Grond was in his hand as if it were never laid to rest, and Mairon realised that telling the Vala to sleep on the couch was no longer an option. Certainly not during the night to come.

Thuringwethil immediately scrambled to her feet and bowed deeply, quite possibly remembering that she had not done it yet and it was in her best interest to rectify that error. Eönwë, on the other hand, just sat there with a dumbfounded expression on his face, seemingly resigned beyond reason. A deep thunder rolled above their heads and echoed across the land just like it did when Arda had been young. To someone who knew how to listen to whispers of the world, it would be a child’s play to determine the origin of that sound. Mairon wondered briefly if it managed to reach Valinor.

Unconcerned with everyone’s bewilderment, Melkor swung Grond with ease born of centuries of practice and slammed it on the ground centimetres away from the Secondborn’s feet. Deep fissures sprang from the place of impact and covered the ground around them, and only then, finally, the Man fell to his knees.

“You have heard my brother’s Herald, have you not, you brainless mortal?” the Vala asked in a disgusted tone, his voice almost as loud as the thunderclaps tearing open the sky above them. The Man simply gaped at him. “You will find nothing here except perhaps a long, painful death that will be spoken about in all the ages to come. Remove yourself from my presence and do not ever come back, neither you nor any other imbecile with invalid assumptions that they are allowed to ask anything of me because a random king with a superiority complex thought that this mountain belonged to him. This is my land and mine it shall remain for all time.”

A single snowflake, apparently blessed with a knack for dramatics, fell from the clouds and landed on the Secondborn’s nose where it melted instantaneously. As if in response to that, Melkor’s free hand began to glisten with rime. His other hand, clutched around Grond’s handle, was covered with fire that was blazing brighter with each passing minute.

Mairon was slowly coming to a conclusion that he was _not_ going to wait for the nightfall.

“Herald of Manwë!” Melkor roared with fury and Eönwë hastily stood up, probably astonished that he was being yelled at instead of crushed into pieces. “Take this wretch out of my sight and ensure it does not return. If you fail, the only thing left of you for my brother to find will be the feathers you keep sticking into your hair.”

“I…” the Maia began, cast a sideways glance at Grond and seemed to have discarded a few things he initially wanted to say. “Yes, Lord Melkor. I will escort the Child to the village whence he came.”

“Thuringewthil,” Mairon chimed in, “why don’t you keep him company? Show him Middle-earth or something. I am certain you can think of interesting ways to spend your time as Valinor surely still lacks decent entertainment.”

It was probably the first command ever that did not need to be repeated to her, even though Eönwë’s reaction to it could only be summed up as utter misery. At least he was intelligent enough to realise that arguing would get him absolutely nowhere.

“Look, Mairon,” Melkor finally said when his temper quenched a bit at the departure of the two Maiar and the mentally broken Secondborn. He raised an arm and practically shoved it in Mairon’s face. “It has rusted. How could I let it happen?”

“I will fix it for you,” the Maia promised him softly, “but later. Now go inside and wait for me, I will be right there.”

“What—Mairon, why are your eyes shining like that?”

“ _Go_.”

 

* * *

 

The afternoon sunlight coming through Nimloth’s thick branches illuminated the King’s office with an ever-changing pattern of gold and shadow. The tree’s fragrance was barely discernible now as there were still a few hours left before it overcame the smell of the sea.

If Ar-Pharazôn were to be honest with himself, he preferred the salty smell of the waves over the nauseatingly sweet one of the tree.

His advisor nudged him in the side without even trying to be inconspicuous, so he spinned his crown one last time around his hand and put it on his desk, at least attempting to pretend that he was interested in the report he was currently listening to.

“...and it is the sixth one in the last eight months,” the official concluded and bowed.

“Thank you, ah…” the King began and realised that he did not remember the name of the man in front of him. “That will be all, you are dismissed.”

The man bowed again and waddled out of the office. Ar-Pharazôn turned to his advisor and winced as he saw reproach in the other man’s eyes. “What?” he asked without a shard of dignity.

“You should have asked at least a few questions about the matter.”

“What is there to ask about? Who cares about some Valar-forsaken village far in the mainland?”

“You should, your majesty, those are your lands,” the advisor admonished him mercilessly. “And it is the sixth tither that went insane there.”

“Then have the next one tested and observed for a month before his departure,” the King said and smiled at the sheer brilliancy of his idea. An exasperated sigh was the only answer he received.

“It is not the point—” the other man began but his tirade was interrupted by a timely arrival of the court’s seneschal. Ar-Pharazôn decided that the seneschal needed a promotion.

“Your majesty,” he announced, “the Elvenking has arrived.”

It was Ar-Pharazôn’s turn to sigh in exasperation. “Which one?” he asked. “The hermit, the pretty one, or the deranged one?”

The seneschal gulped and it was the only answer the King needed. He grabbed the crown and furiously put it on his head.

“At least tell me he came alone.”

“His… his sons are with him,” the man whimpered, his face white as a sheet. “All of them.”

Ar-Pharazôn changed his mind about the promotion for this man. “Take them to the throne room,” he ordered, “and announce that I will shortly grace them with my presence.”

He stood up and looked at the man beside him, who was gazing upon him with scrutiny and admonishment. If he were to think about it, the other man rarely regarded him with anything else.

“Just… say what you have to say,” he waved his hand impatiently. “I know you cannot wait to criticise me.”

His advisor sighed, rose to his feet and, in a gesture that was probably intended as comforting, he placed a hand on the King’s shoulder. To Ar-Pharazôn, it was constricting.

“Do not antagonise them, together they are a force to be reckoned with,” he solemnly said, his voice earnest and without the barest hint of criticism.

“If they do not underestimate me, there will be no need for hostility.”

“Pharazôn—”

“Stop, Elrond,” the King interrupted. “I am not your brother, you do not need to hold my hand or tell me what to do. This is my kingdom and I shall rule it as I see fit.”

If his advisor was hurt by those words, he did not show it. They never did, the Elves, always above simple emotions and the triviality of life, always forgetting that life was happening here and now, and there was no repeating it.

Oh, how he hated the Elves.

“I do not tell you how to rule your kingdom, neither do I intend to hold your hand. All I offer is my counsel.”

“And I shall have it,” Ar-Pharazôn graciously agreed, trying to keep his voice pleasantly indifferent, “but this… this is my moment. This is me showing them that their time has passed its apex. We need to share this land, but we do not need to bow to them, no matter how ancient they are.”

“You are playing with fire,” the twin brother of his long-dead ancestor warned him in a grave voice. “Many have made that mistake; do not repeat it.”

“Fires can be extinguished,” the King said and left without a second glance. Behind him, Nimloth’s leaves whispered their tale of a world that was ending.

 

* * *

 

“Where is Eönwë?”

Silence was his only answer.

“My dearest lady,” Manwë prompted in his sweetest voice, louder this time, “where is Eönwë?”

His wife mumbled something non-committal, her undivided attention focused somewhere in the distance, far from Valinor on a place only they could see.

“Varda!”

“Yes?” she looked at him, startled by his sudden yell. “Did you say something?”

Manwë sighed in that particular way that was reserved only for couples with aeons-long relationships. “Yes, I did,” he admitted. “I asked if you perhaps knew Eönwë’s whereabouts, he should have returned by now.”

“I am certain he is well,” Varda smiled at him, but her expression was distant, careless. “I was focused on something else entirely, but surely no harm has befallen him. It is Eönwë we are talking about, after all.”

“And what is...” he began but stopped when he felt a familiar wave of energy building just outside the chamber. “I would assume that you were right after all, my wife, he is—oh.”

His Herald entered the throne room, head bowed and steps hesitant, his garment covered in dirt, leaves, and spiderweb, feathers in his hair sticking out in angles that betrayed sloppiness. Manwë blinked a few times, desperately searching for words where there were none. This was not his Maia, it could not be; his Maia was calm and composed and serious to the bone. This, this before him…

“What happened to you?” he asked as dread clutched him tightly in its grasp. Eönwë muttered something under his breath. “What was that? Has some beast bitten off your tongue?”

There were many reactions he would have expected at that remark, but a deep blush that suddenly covered his Herald’s entire face and even his ears was not one of them.

“I was exploring Middle-earth,” the Maia mumbled. “In case the Valar’s aid was required someplace else as well.”

“You were exploring Middle-earth,” Manwë echoed after Eönwë. He reached out and carefully took one of the leaves with nothing but tips of two of his fingers. The leaf was covered in something sticky and smelly. “And where did your exploration lead you?”

“...I might have hunted spiders in the process.”

“You _might_ have.”

A moment of heavy silence fell amongst them, and even Varda turned away from her window to look at them.

“I _did_ hunt the spiders,” Eönwë conceded in a defeated voice and hunched his shoulders. He looked like misery incarnated.

Manwë sighed heavily and rubbed his temples in a helpless gesture that should have been reserved for the Man only. And maybe for the Noldor as well.

“Clean yourself and—”

Varda cut him in with a long stream of Valarin curses that rendered both him and Eönwë entirely speechless. Ages passed since such words had last been heard in Valinor, and it was certainly the first time his wife ever spoke them.

“Fëanáro just declared war on Ar-Pharazôn,” she announced even though they did not ask for explanation, without any inclination to apologise for letting her anger be shaped in words that could shatter the world itself.

“He did _what?_ ” Manwë asked incredulously, having heard the name which made him cringe at the mere thought of it. Truth be told, the name of the Númenórean King had the exact same effect.

All of a sudden, he realised he missed the times when his brother had been the only chaos to contain.

“Belay my last order,” he told Eönwë, his mind already working on minimising fallout of the crisis that was about to happen in Middle-earth. For it was, he had absolutely no doubt about that; nothing but fire and ruin could follow a clash of personalities such as Fëanáro and Ar-Pharazôn. “Inform the Aratar that I call upon them to meet this evening. No exceptions.”

His Herald straightened his back, and for a moment he looked as if whatever happened while he was away from Aman did not occur at all. “What will be the subject of this meeting, my lord?” he asked, all serious and professional.

“The matter of sending our representatives to Middle-earth,” Manwë answered, but nothing could have prepared him for a strong gleam of hope that suddenly appeared in Eönwë’s eyes. His mind was made up in a second. “You are _not_ going to set a foot on those cursed shores in the foreseeable future. Now dally not, Herald; go and spread the word of my missive. As for your own report, you will give it after the meeting”

The Maia bowed and left without a word, and the King of Arda joined his wife by the window overlooking evergreen meadows of Valinor and the Pelóri enclosing them, high and untouched by time; and then the rest of Arda, mortal lands of appeal he never understood, lands he would never walk. Centuries were growing heavy on his mind and body alike.

“Can you see him?” he asked quietly as if someone could overhear his words.

“Rarely,” Varda answered. “He shields his land, not unlike Melian does. But her Girdle I can see through. After all, she is just a Maia. His spells weaken only when something captures all of his attention.”

“It causes me a great deal of unease, my lady,” Manwë mused, “to have him out there, uncontrollable and unrestrained.”

“You are bound by your word,” she reminded him. “Just as he is.”

“As if he ever cared about that.”

Her silence was everything he needed to know what she thought of his last statement.

“Are you able to see him now?” he asked instead. “With all that is happening there, I would be surprised if he did not instigate at least some of that chaos.”

Varda rolled her eyes, but focused her attention on an unspecified point in space Manwë had no intention of watching himself. She frowned, paled suddenly, and then her face turned red.

“What is it?” Manwë all but yelled and put his hands on her shoulders in a way he hoped to be comforting. At least that was his intention, although the meaning of some of the gestures he learnt from the Children still eluded his comprehension. “Varda? What is happening?”

“You do not want to know,” she whimpered and turned away from the window.

“I do, I _need_ to know,” he insisted desperately. “Tell me.”

“Have you ever wondered,” Varda began in a quivering voice, “why Melkor insisted on taking that one Maia with him?”

“I have not,” Manwë lied even though he racked his brains about his brother’s choice of company for more than an age now.

“Well, my beloved husband, wonder no more for your brother apparently cares more about his Maia than he has ever cared for you,” she patted him on the arm. “Now please excuse me, I must ask Estë whether she has power of making me forget the scene I saw because of your request.”

“Oh,” he said, blushed, and promised himself never to listen to gossip again.

 

* * *

 

Sunlight was peeking through the curtains, warm and pleasant in its morning brightness. With time, Melkor had learnt to tolerate the Daystar. It was not love, but more of an appreciation truly; one that came in pairs with certain qualities the sunlight, as it turned out, could enhance and improve even though they were already perfect.

Freckles, for example. A tinge of gold on the skin. Hair that seemed to burn brighter than the Sun itself. Everything seemed to be more…

Well, more.

“Mairon?”

The Maia was lying by his side, his hair loose and spread around his head like a fiery halo. He made no movement nor any kind of sound at his name.

“Mairon, I know you are not asleep.”

This time he received an irritated grunt in response, so he threaded his fingers through a strand of red hair.

“You said we would take care of that dragon.”

“Later,” Mairon murmured into his chest, his hot breath tickling against his skin.

“You said that already as well,” Melkor reminded him, “three days ago.”

“Later,” he repeated and wrapped his free arm possessively around the Vala’s waist. “We have time.”

Technically, Melkor could have simply got out of the bed. But as technicalities always bored him, he decided that Mairon had a point. So he pulled him even closer to his side, allowed himself to be held by the Maia in return, and for a moment which, in a way, was eternity itself, all was well.

 

_Fin_

 


End file.
